James Cain - The Baby in the Icebox and Other Short Fiction

“My poor, poor little Gil,” sobbed Maria.

“You might have controlled him, Senora.”

“Who could control one so strong?”

“For lack of control he has drowned.”

“No! I will not believe it!”

“The cuerpo perhaps will convince you.”

Diego half carried her to the dune, whispered to her, patted her, and got her a little quieter. The Gendarme commandeered an escriban public , who came over, set up his table in front of Maria, and asked names, ages, place of residence, etc., for the official relato . It had a Doomsday sound, and upset her horribly, but at last he was done, the Gendarme signed, and he went. Maria, it appeared, could now go.

However, she didn’t, remaining where she was, a huddled heap of purple at the foot of the dune, Diego sitting beside her. The sun dropped low, and people lined up for busses. Men approached Diego to engage his car, preferring the expense to a wait, but he said he wasn’t libre. Twilight came, and quite suddenly, dark, bringing a chill to the air. It wasn’t this, however, that emptied the beach of its revelers, but the food situation, for the Playa had no facilities, and people have to eat. Soon no one was there but the soft-drink lady, the Gendarmes, taking a last look around, and the lonely pair on the dune. A vendor offered tamales, and when Diego waved him off, his boy tried to be helpful. Why wait? he wanted to know. The sharks, which come in at night, would eat the body anyhow, so what point was there in hanging around?

“Out!” screamed Maria. “No!”

“Such talk!” said the soft-drink lady. “And to a mother! About sharks!”

“It’s a well-know fact,” said the boy.

“It’s horrible!”

“Why? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Baffled at such irrationality, he went with his father, and the soft-drink lady had a try. Maria made no response, only staring at the sea, which had changed from its day-time color, of deep indigo, to a nighttime black shot with streaks of iridescent blue, and topped at the surf by bright white feathers rushing in. the Gendarme appeared from up the beach, and clumped on down, his eyes shooting around, possibly looking for drunks buried in the sand. At last Diego took her hand. “Maria,” he said, “it is time. You do Gil no good. You only do yourself harm.”

“And you harm, is that it?”

“I don’t complain, but it is time.”

“Then, I’ll come.”

“You’re a good girl,” said the soft-drink lady.

“I’ll take you home,” said Diego.

“Whatever you say.”

“We’ll have dinner somewhere first.”

She got up, dusted the sand off her hips, got a comb from her bag and began running it through her hair.

As she stood, refastening her silver barette, a wail came from the sea. “...What was that?” she asked sharply. “Did you hear something?”

“No,” said the soft-drink lady.

“Perhaps a gull,” said Diego.

“At night, a gull?” said Maria.

The wail repeated, so no one could fail to hear it, or pretend it was only a bird. It quavered, and with an unmistakable insistence, as though intended for those on the beach.

“It is Gil!” screamed Maria. “He is there! He is calling me!.. Gil! I’m coming! Gil! ”

She dashed once more at the sea, and this time it was Diego who caught her, bringing her back by main force. The soft-drink lady talked to her, but uselessly. The Gendarme came from down the beach, took in the situation, and told Maria if she didn’t stop her nonsense, he was putting her in his car, taking her to Matamoras, and locking her up for disorderly conduct. But as he started to say it all over again, to impress it on her mind, the wail came again, so even he was jolted, and stood irresolute, not knowing what to make of it.

Maria was beside herself, and as the wail kept up, seeming to come closer all the time, it was all Diego could do to hold her. Finally, motioning the Gendarme to take charge, he walked to one side, sad down, and took off his two-toned shoes. Then, stuffing his stockings into them and laying his hat on top of them, he marched down to the surf. “What are you doing?” asked the Gendarme.

“What do you think?” said Diego.

“You’re crazy.”

“If this keeps up,” Diego told him “we’ll all be crazy and that girl will be dead. She’s going after that boy, and something’s got to be done. I don’t know who that is, but if you’ll kindly hand on to her , I mean to find out.”

“Suppose it’s not a who?”

“All right then, it’s a what.”

“You may find out more than you expect.”

“At least, we’ll know.”

He faced the sea, closed his eyes in prayer, and went in. He took a comber sidewise, then straightened out and started to swim. He confessed later to a horrible fear, as it seemed to him the wail was from the other world and suggested death. He reached the spot where it seemed to come from, then was started to hear it behind him. With a sense of being cut off, he pulled his feet up, reversed direction, and started back. Then, in horror, he saw a fin and remembered the sharks. He panicked, digging for shore. Then red trucks flashed at his eyes, and Gil rose in front of him. He rose clear out of the sea, moaning as Diego insisted later, and landed plop in his arms. In utter terror by now, afraid to hold on, for fear the shark would close in, ashamed to let go, he did nothing but thresh with his feet and beat around with one free arm. But the roll of the waves was with him, and in a few moments he made it, Gill still on his shoulder. As he staggered out on the sand, Maria grabbed the boy, the soft-drink woman grabbed her, and the Gendarme grabbed Diego, thumping him on the back for his bravery, and blowing his whistle for help.

Exhausted, Diego collapsed, but revived and yelled to them all: “Work on him — give him artificial respiration! He’s alive! He spoke to me! He spoke and leaped out of the sea!”

“He’s dead,” said the soft-drink lady.

“He’s cold, so cold,” said Maria.

“Thus the tale,” said my friend, the pilot at the Brazos Santiago station, a few miles north of Playa Washington, “as I heard it around Matamoras.”

“I admit it’s spooky,” I said, “and as a feat of derring-do, quite romantic. Only trouble is, I don’t believe it.”

“I do,” he said. “That’s the difference.”

“Captain, you surprise me.”

“Maybe, but I think it’s true.”

“Shark and all?”

“Wasn’t a shark, but sharks figure in it.”

“What was it, then?”

“Porpoise.”

“And the wail, what about that?”

“That was a porpoise too.”

“Bringing the boy in to Mamma?”

“That’s just about it.”

He said, looking at the thing from the point of view of the porpoises, they were probably delighted when Gil swam out where they were, as “they love to play and love little boys. That statue they put in the picture, of a boy riding a dolphin, was not far-fetched. It has happened in the aquariums, as those things aren’t fish. They’re animals. And when Gil began to sink, their idea was, get him up to the surface again, get him breathing. So they handled him just like one of their own pups. They began bumping him up to the surface, and when the boy on the raft said they were fighting him off, he probably was telling the truth. But of course it didn’t work, and then night came on and changed the whole picture.”

“In what way, Captain?”

“The sharks.”

“Then they do come in at night?”

“Or, like most fish, they begin to bite at night.”

“So they’re more dangerous.”

“As anyone who knows them will tell you.”

“And what then?